Man Alive!
by SonnetST
Summary: "Alexander Wheatley was exactly nobody". Who was Wheatley before he became a personality core? Three-shot, all up for the Holiday!
1. Alexander Wheatley

**Hey there, !  
>As my Christmas present to you, I present to you all three chapters of my very first Portal fanfic! Yay!<strong>  
>This fic plays with the theories that the Personality Cores were once actually people, namely, who Wheatley was before he became a Core.<br>Also, no worries for younger readers, this should be no worse than the games, aside from one drinking reference later on.  
><strong>Hope You Enjoy!<strong>

* * *

><p>Alexander Wheatley was exactly nobody.<p>

He lived in a tiny flat over an Indian takeaway place on Downshire Hill, which made everything in the house smell like Saffron or sandalwood or whatever Indian takeaway smells like, which he not-so-secretly despised.

Every day, he would take the tube to the small insurance firm in Knightsbridge while reading the Guardian's football section, hoping for some good news about the West Ham match. If he felt brave that day, he'd look up and smile at the cute girl who was always on her way to some kind of scientist job in her long, white labcoat. If he felt lucky, he'd still be looking to see her smile back.

But what Alexander Wheatley didn't know was that this would be the day that would change his life.

"Hey, hey! It's the Wheatface!" a voice shouted at him in the lobby.

"What's up, Spaceman Spiff? Have fun at last night's trivia game at the Russian Lady? Plenty of space-y questions for you to dominate at?" Wheatley called back as they exchanged high-fives.

Patrick was always an odd fellow, one of the out-casts of the office. He'd always wanted to be an astronaut or an astronomer or something, he could talk about space and stars and planets for hours if you'd let him. His entire cubicle was papered with a star chart or a high-resolution image of a nebula or something else equally celestial, depending on what week it was. This obsession earned him the nickname, "Spaceman Spiff", which, unfortunately, he wore with pride like a badge.

"I am the best at space, all space, all the time! Can you believe it's my last day here? Gonna miss me, kiddo?" he asked as he followed into the elevator.

Wheatley was taken aback, "Last day? What are you talking about?"

"Remember last month when we were at the pub watching West Ham getting their asses handed to them?"

"You know my football team, that's hardly an uncommon occurrence, mate."

"Well, I was telling you then that me, Rick and Craig got picked up by this science lab in America, they have this _astronomical_ claim rate, and they needed some people to work things out between them and their insurance company. They're paying almost _ten times _as much as this place! Too bad they don't need an HR flunky!"

Wheatley laughed, "Yeah, right!"

The doors opened in Spiff's floor.

"See you at the going-away party, Wheatface?"

"I don't know, not sure if I'd be exactly _welcome_ there, you know how the guys can be, kinda mean not exactly pleasant to be around. Not exactly my cup of tea, those guys are, not a cup at all," he shrugged.

"It's not like you have anything better to do, right? See you there!"

Wheatley sighed.

He hated to admit it, but having Spiff around was like some kind of protection. As long as there was someone odder, freakier than him, Wheatley was safe. Now, he would be the bottom of the office barrel, with "Space Freak", "The Smart Ass" and "Indiana Jones" were gone.

_Could retire now, _he thought to himself, _31 is not too young! Go on holiday to Aruba or Cancun or the Maldives or something of the sort. Maybe pick up a job there as a caddy. People like caddies. They tend to get tipped well._

The reception area of the Human Resource offices was a madhouse. One younger girl, blonde and tiny was sobbing, flanked by two older women who told her that she was "a strong woman" and that she "doesn't need to put up with that", two huge guys who looked more at home in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie than a pastel-colored company polo argued loudly, yelling about whose turn it was to get takeaway or who pushed over whose cubicle walls to steal more space or something equally inane and one scrawny young kid curled himself up into a corner, mumbling something about Christmas bonuses. Wheatley sighed again. It was about to be a long day.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **So, what'd you kids think? I kinda liked making Wheatley a sort of Arthur Dent-like character!  
>Also, his flat is a real place! Google it!<p> 


	2. The Life and Times of an HR Flunky

"Listen, you stupid! This woman has been _harassed_, she has been _abused_ and she has been _degraded_! The best you can do is offer a pamphlet and a stupid form?" one of the women demanded.

"Do you have _any _idea what kind of trauma you're causing her, you moron?" the other growled.

"Ma'm, calling names will get us nowhere, okay? Nowhere." Wheatley replied calmly, "Secondly, there is not much I can do in my current position, there's the forms and there's the literature, and the higher-ups will look at it all and then get back to you on that trauma, although I hardly believe a passing glance from one of our _gay _colleges would hold much merit."

"'AVE YOU 'EARD WHA' 'E SAI' T' ME, 'E SAID THA' I MOVED ME WALL OVAH! 'E SAID I WAS STEALIN' 'IS SPACE, 'E DID!"

"THA'S CAUSE Y' WERE, Y' BLOODY JACKWAGON!"

"Gentlemen- gentlemen, _please_ keep your voices down!" Wheatley tried to shout over the noise.

"YOU SHU' YOU'E RU'Y FACE, Y' SHRIMPY MORON!"

"I am not a- oh, what's the point?"

"Christmas... Christmas b-.. b-bonus... yessss, booonusss... must have!"

"Sir, it's July, I hardly think you have any bonus, Christmas or otherwise is going to be coming any time-"

"NOOO! LISTEN! BONUS!"

"I can't give your bonus in advance, it's just simply not going to happen, all right?"

"Christmaaasss... CHRISTMAAAS! LISTEN, YOU MORON!"

That snapped it.

"I am NOT a moron!" Wheatley heard himself shouting, jumping up from his desk chair.

The little man drew back into the dark leather chair, whimpering softly to himself.

"I AM NOT A MORON!" he shouted again, knocking the various bobbleheads and paperweights over, sending huge stacks of paperwork flying around the room.

"Whoa, Wheats! Calm down, man!" Spaceman Spiff called from the doorway. "Hey, it's okay, mate. Let's just head on to lunch like we always do and you'll feel bett-"

"NO! I am _DONE_ with this STUPID BLOODY COMPANY and this STUPID BLOODY JOB and-! and-! this STUPID BLOODY FOOTBALL TEAM!"

And with that, Alexander Wheatley stomped out the door, stomped past Spiff and the other people who'd gathered at the commotion, stomped down three flights of stairs and stomped his way to the nearest pub.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Aww, poor Wheatley! Doesn't it make you just want to hug the guy?


	3. The Headhunter

"Three pints," Wheatley growled, pushing a fiver across the bar. "Keep the change."

"That bad, huh?"

Wheatley froze. It was _her_. The girl from the tube.

Her lab coat was hanging on the chair behind her, revealing a black company polo with a logo embroidered on it.

_Aperture, _he thought, _Where have I heard that name before?_

"Ah, yeah. Rather rough day, actually," he admitted.

"Alexander Wheatley is it? How's that HR flunky job working out for you?"

"H-How did you-?"

"Know that? You still have your name tag on."

Wheatley sighed, "Well for God's sake- I knew that, I'm pretty sure I knew that," he replied, tearing the tag clip from his pocket and tossing it distainfully on the bar.

The woman studied him for a moment. Tall. Lanky. Gingerish. Striking blue eyes. She could tell that more than one woman fell in love with those eyes.

"I'll be straight with you, there's a reason why you've been seeing me every day for the past few months. I've been following you."

"You've been _what_?"

"I was sent by the head of my department to recruit new... _personalities_."

"Personalities, eh?" he asked, taking a heady gulp of ale, "What for?"

"Various positions, mostly in the testing fields. We have many subjects already, we just need someone to oversee them. And seeing as you excel at human relations..."

"Excel, yeah, right." he snorted, "That's one way to put it."

"You would be in a position where you could make your own way, with almost nobody as your boss, no one to tell you if you're doing the right job or not," the woman continued, "I hardly believe you'd get such an opportunity in your current position."

Wheatley paused, contemplating his reply, staring into the foamy contents of his glass as if it held the answers.

"I suppose you're right," he admitted.

"So, what do you say, Mr. Wheatley? How would you like to join Apeture Science Laboratories?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **And there we have it!  
>The "three pints at lunchtime" is another <em>Hitchhiker's Guide<em> reference, in case anyone was paying attention!

Hope you enjoyed! Leave a review, too, I love those!


End file.
